


lips against skin like unspoken truths

by VerdantMoth



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Boys Kissing, Canon Era, Frottage, Jealous Arthur Pendragon, Jealousy, M/M, Practice Kissing, Public Display of Affection, Sloppy Makeouts, Summer, Voyeurism, and kissing, cause knights and fields, of a sort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-26
Updated: 2018-12-26
Packaged: 2019-09-28 02:32:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17174198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VerdantMoth/pseuds/VerdantMoth
Summary: When he shifts to steady them, he’s hard and it brushes Merlin just so against his own aching member so that he can’t help but let out a long, low noise. He fits his other hand in Gwaine’s hair, tugging and shovin, trying to get the angle just right. His hips twitch, or maybe Gwaine’s do. It doesn’t matter; they are spit and heat and sunny summer freedom in this kiss.





	lips against skin like unspoken truths

**Author's Note:**

  * For [arthur_pendragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/arthur_pendragon/gifts).



They’re in a field with tall grasses, the knights “training,” when Merlin’s life changes. The day isn’t unordinary by any means. Swelteringly hot in the peak of summer, birds lazy and crickets chirping, as the knights halfheartedly swing their swords. Most of ‘em have stripped down to just their breeches, which makes the mock fighting even lazier.

No one particularly wants the blunt end of a sun-warmed blade kissing their bellies.

Merlin is only half-listening to the knights bluff their way through stable boys and maidens, snorting when a lie is particularly obvious. In theory, he’s working oil into Arthur’s leather, but no one is fooled. Arthur especially, who seems annoyed every time Merlin’s mouth moves in accusation.

Arthur himself has yet to tell a tale; not because there aren’t any, but because he knows _Merlin_ knows. But Gwaine’s stories, always outlandish and believable only occasionally, are particularly flamboyant today and Merlin’s about in tears correcting him.

“He was not, Gwaine! He was five and half at best and he most certainly couldn’t fit in the ale barrel because he’d drunk it all already!” Merlin snorts.

Gwaine gives him an eye roll. “It’s my memory, Merl, and I’ll recount it how I please!”

Merlin laughs, “You’ll spin it how it suits you!”

Arthur watches them and the heat must’ve settled unpleasantly beneath his skin because he flings a glove at Merlin. “Oi! Country boy. What do you even know about any of this?”

Merlin flushes, not because Arthur’s right, but because _Arthur_ seems to think him a blushing virgin. “I probably know a right bit more than you,” he mutters.

There’s a challenge somewhere between Merlin’s pout and Arthur’s glare, but the gauntlet hasn’t yet been thrown. “Yeah? How? There weren’t many kids in Ealdor and from your stories you certainly weren’t ‘practicing’ with that Will lad.” _I keep you too busy for any lewd exploits,_ goes unsaid, but not unheard.

Merlin stands to his feet. “Right. And the Crown Prince in all his propriety and sensibility knows anything about midnight tumbles in the hay or an afternoon liaison out by the pond!”

Arthur stalks forward, shoves a finger in Merlin’s chest. “Bah! I bet you’ve never even had a proper kiss!”

Merlin shoves back. “I’ll show you! Gwaine, c’mere a moment.”

Gwaine has the sort of terrifying knowing in his eyes that almost makes Merlin reconsider. But then he is there, standing to the left of them, and Merlin has to shoulder Arthur out of the way.

Merlin quirks an “are you ready?” brow. Gwaine doesn’t hesitate to grip Merlin by the shoulders and pull him in close. Merlin has only seconds to fit his hands around Gwaine’s sweaty but _firm_ hips, before slick lips are attacking his own.

The whistles are immediate and exuberant because when Gwaine puts on a show, he goes all out. His hands are all over Merlin, fire-warm even compared to the sun’s heat. He traces his fingers under Merlin’s shirt, along his waist, and dips them below the band of his trousers. Merlin responds by fisting one hand in Gwaine’s damp curls and resting the other on his neck.

He pulls him as close as he can, fits them together so that he’s caught one of Gwaine’s legs between his own, and the Knight is balancing most of Merlin’s wait. _Gods,_ but Gwaine is a practiced kisser. Merlin almost forgets this is a performance, that they’ve an audience, as he bites at Gwaine. Gwaine sucks his bottom lip, fights Merlin’s tongue for entrance. His hands reach to cradle Merlin’s butt so he doesn’t drop him.

When he shifts to steady them, he’s hard and it brushes Merlin _just so_ against his own aching member so that he can’t help but let out a long, low noise. He fits his other hand in Gwaine’s hair, tugging and shoving, trying to get the angle just right. His hips twitch, or maybe Gwaine’s do. It doesn’t matter, they are spit and heat and sunny summer freedom in this kiss.

Merlin is so focused on the flavor of ale and man, on the tingling in his groin and the rasp of Gwaine’s beard against his chin, he _forgets_. Forgets training and knights. Forgets Arthur and his mockery. Forgets that one, ill fated _moment_ between himself and Gwaine, when Gwaine has realized as much as teasing was nice Percival was it for him. The same moment Merlin has been forced to confront his… _thing_ for a certain royal prat.

He’s reminded painfully when he lands bum first on the hard ground, a flushed, seething prince hovering above him. Arthur doesn’t speak immediately, and the air is so thick with tension Merlin is surprised the skies don’t explode down on them.

Then Arthur, eyes never leaving Merlin, orders his knights away. “We resume training at beak of light tomorrow. I suggest you be well rested and prepared, because heat or no we won’t be going lightly.”

He turns and storms away, a hand flicked over his shoulder. “Come along _Merlin_. You’ve chores to attend to and I need a bath.”

 

—

 

True to Arthur’s temper, Merlin is kept busy running this errand and that, until the moon has almost faded completely and a new sun is ready to rise. He’s exhausted and angry, and he knows tomorrow will be no better. But Arthur’s almost settled for the night.

Despite his threats, Merlin knows he’ll sleep until the midday heat is too oppressive. Now though, cranky with sweat and lack of sleep, he’s tossing his things about his chambers and ranting about nothing.

Merlin is slumped over the dirty water of Arthur’s bath, debating if it’s worth it to try and dress the bickering prince or if he should try and cleaning the basin.

Arthur, as usual, decides for him. “Well?”

Merlin turns towards him. “Well what?”

Arthur waves a pompous hands.

Merlin blinks at him, sighs heavily and droops his shoulders. “Arthur, I don’t speak vague and useless gestures.”

Arthur’s face contorts and turns a unique shade of purple that Merlin hasn’t ever seen before. “You, useless, idiot. Aren’t you going to dress me so I can get some rest?”

Merlin narrows his eyes, annoyed at the attitude thrown at him. “I don’t know, _Sire._ I rather assumed you might prefer to sleep in the buff, what with the heat and all…”

Arthur stalks towards him. “You absolute imbecile. I cannot sleep like a commoner, exposed and on display! Have you no sense of decency?”

Merlin shrugs, “I think I’ve proven myself enough for one day.” He goes and gathers a nightshirt and some underthings, which he shoves at Arthur.

They fall to the floor. Arthur crosses his arms and taps his foot.

“What has bloody gotten into you today?” Merlin screeches as he tosses his hands up. He stoops down and gathers the things in his arms and motions for Arthur to raise his hands. “You’re so… so… bah! A child pouting.”

“I’m not _pouting,_ Merlin _._ Prince’s don’t pout.” But Arthur grumbles the words as Merlin tugs the shirt down over his arms.

“Fine, whatever are you _sulking_ for?” Merlin asks. He shoves at Arthur’s legs until the prince lifts the left one and he can start tugging the cotton upwards.

Arthur refuses to answer and Merlin is far to exhausts to wait around for one. “So be it. Don’t tell me. I’ve completed my tasks for the night and I’m off to sleep what little bit I can. By the gods I hope whatever has crawled in you and died is expelled tomorrow or I might have to take up Gwaine’s offer to be his pageboy.” Merlin knows his grousing is pushing an already timid line, but he’s tired and cranky and sweaty, and there’s still a tub to clean.

He chances a glance at Arthur’s face, and is horrified at the rage. Merlin rarely fears for himself in the presence of his prince, but in this moment he wonders if he hasn’t hung himself. Arthur growls, low and unnatural in his chest. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” Arthur spits at him.

“What?” Merlin asks, confused by the sudden shift in conversation.

“You’d fucking love to be Gwaine’s pageboy. Always at his beck and call, hovering by his side. Prepared at any moment to _practice_ , to show off. Gwaine could ask you to turn up your arse and you’d gladly flaunt yourself like a whore for him.” Arthur speaks, and it’s dark and cruel, and very unlike him.

Part of Merlin burns with shame at the implication, but his anger runs hotter. “Are you mad? This is what’s got you all out of sorts? You’re angry I kissed _Gwaine_ to prove you wrong?”

“No!” Arthur hisses. He stalks forward, backs Merlin up against the wall with his ferocity, but he doesn’t touch him. “I’m furious because my _servant,_ my _personal manservant,_ apparently doesn’t know what is and is not an appropriate public display!” There’s a small glimmer in the prince's eyes that betrays him.

Merlin stands as tall as he can, crowded against the stones. “Then I guess you best be teaching me.”

The command seems to startle Arthur who takes a step backwards. He regards Merlin for a long moment, eyes searching for some unnameable thing. Then he’s squaring his shoulders and crowding into Merlin’s space. He doesn’t yet touch him, though.

Eyes, Merlin thinks, are wonderful pools of thought and intention, if one has learned to read them.

Arthur leans forward and tentatively brushes his lips to Merlin’s, waiting for the rebuke. It breaks Merlin’s heart. How many have sought the Prince’s pleasure, and then denied it in the face of scrutiny?

When Merlin doesn’t push him away, Arthur moves in so that his body is flush against his servants. Every inch of exposed skin is pressed against Merlin’s. His weight is heavy. He fits his hands to Merlin’s hips, touches him like he is delicate and sacred.

Arthur does not kiss like Gwaine. Gwaine is heady and fizzy wine, the press of illicit thrill, the knowledge that one has _gotten away_ with something. Gwaine kisses, and it feels like filching the last of the warm honey cakes, or slipping the ripest fruit into a pocket when no one's looking. Gwaine kisses, and skin explodes like pops of a fire, like first times and last calls. Gwaine is all about that one precise moment, when fingers skim over tender flesh and the whole world explodes behind eyelids, but right before the release.

Gwaine’s kiss is the build up.

But Arthur? Arthur’s kiss cracks the heavens open. His mouth fits against Merlin’s, perfectly. His lips, chapped and dry, move slowly, lazily. His tongue does not fight for dominance, doesn’t demand entrance impatiently. It simply takes its rightful place at the roof of Merlin’s mouth, at the back of his molars. He licks into Merlin’s mouth, not like one searching for the last of the water, but one savoring the first taste of sweet sugar berries. There’s nothing hurried or flamboyant.

Arthur’s kiss is the release.

He touches Merlin, and Merlin’s skin doesn’t feel too tight on his bones. It feels as though it finally fits him. He drags nails up Merlin’s chest, rubs calloused thumbs across his nipples. He flicks lightly, and Merlin groans into his mouth and sags against him. Arthur doesn’t exactly catch his weight, but he braces his legs on either side of Merlin, rest his forehead against his servant’s as his fingers stroke slow circles around Merlin’s hips and over his thighs.

“Kissing is a duet, a song between two people that means nothing to those around them,” Arthur whispers into his ear. He bites Merlin’s lobe, hard enough to heat the skin, but gentle enough that Merlin feels it swirl in his belly. “The song is still the most beautiful noise spectators have ever heard.”

He licks and sucks down Merlin’s neck. Merlin has never been more thankful for the scarf he normally wears, though the idea of the coarse fabric in heat isn’t the most appealing. Arthur doesn’t stop though. He lifts Merlin’s arms, tugs his stinky shirt up and over his head. He licks the pool of sweat in the hollow of Merlin’s neck and bites a claiming mark into his shoulder.

Merlin never wants this to end, even as Arthur brushes too-light fingers over the bulge in his trousers. “The show you and Gwaine put on today…” Arthur hums against his skin, and then squeezes Merlin’s budge just hard enough to make him jerk and cry out. “As if anyone believed your duet. Loud and disjointed. An uproarious racket of broken notes.”

His hands dig once more into Merlin’s hips, and Merlin has to balance himself against the prince, placing his hands on Arthur’s shoulders.

Arthur traces Merlin’s nose with his own, then bites at his chin. He returns to Merlin’s lips, his own mouth so close Merlin can practically feel the sharp skin, despite not yet touching. He breaths, and Merlin tastes spiced meat and peppery vegetables. Arthur presses against Merlin, so that the fine silk of his shirt brushes Merlin’s over-sensitive skin. He cups Merlin’s arse, and Merlin lifts his legs, hooks them around Arthur’s waist.

He forgets sometimes, how broad Arthur is _everywhere_.

Arthur bucks up, intentionally or not, and Merlin isn’t ashamed of how high his voice gets. He pulls at Arthur’s curls, forces the Prince’s mouth to meet his own. Kissing, to Arthur may, not seem a battle, but Merlin is certainly losing as he jerks his hips clumsily against Arthur’s and as he pants into his lungs.

When he thinks on the moment later, he’ll never be able to decide who came first. Arthur shudders, breathes a quiet noise into Merlin’s lungs, and Merlin’s whole body tenses, then spasms clumsily. They collapse in a heap, sweaty and sticky, and bone limp. Merlin of course, is on his back on the floor, Arthur’s head pillowed on the dark curls on his chest. He can feel the soft, fluttering kisses Arthur presses to his pecs, to his ribs, and the prince’s fingers _never. Stop._ Ghosting over his hips.

They don’t move until the sun’s first rays peak through the gap in the curtains. Until their trousers are stiff with cool spend and their skin itchy. Merlin quickly draws another bath, and prepares Arthur. The Prince sinks into the sudsy water, and Merlin drags a cloth over dark ridges down his golden back. He doesn’t remember making them.

Arthur in turn presses his fingers into the bruises on Merlin’s neck, his collarbone. “You can have the day off.” He says quietly, and with a look of contemplation.

Merlin’s skin burns with shame and regret.

“You can have it off, if you spend it with me. I don’t think we’ve quite mastered an appropriate public kiss.”

Arthur pauses a moment, lifts Merlin’s chin, then pushes his head side to side. “You’ll need a bath though. You’re positively putrid and you still taste slightly of Gwaine.”

The name makes his nose wrinkle in disgust, but then he laughs a little. Then harder, and then until he’s crying with it.

Merlin’s afraid he’s gone a bit insane, but Arthur pulls him into the tub _still wearing his breeches dammit_!!

“Percival isn’t going to let Gwaine off quite as easy as I have you. Poor lad’ll be limping for at least a week after that stunt!”

Merlin snorts, but Gwaine’s not the only one, he suspects.

  
  



End file.
